want to think about. “Death has become mundane, has it?” I said, trying to make light, but with my heavy heart I don’t think I pulled it off.
“As long as it’s not imminent,” my father shot back.
He had a point, I guess. Not one I could identify with, but I’d learned long ago the Big Boss was who he was. For a long time I’d wondered whether he knew where any bodies were buried. Vegas being what it is, he’d done business with the mob back in the day and the whispers still followed him. He’d never cultivated that reputation, but he didn’t work to dispel the rumors either. So, he remained surrounded by mystery—something I think he got a big bang out of. Personally, I couldn’t see my father throwing his lot in with Tony Spilotro, Lefty Rosenthal, and the boys, but, as recent history had proven once again, I was not the best judge of character—especially when it came to men. However, family was family—blood thicker than water and all that. I looped an arm around his shoulders, gave him a quick squeeze then stepped back. In heels, I had him by at least six inches—a fact that always surprised me. He just seemed…bigger.
“Poker, a game that totally eludes me.” He nodded toward the two pros now engrossed in the game the young Mr. Weston had just joined. “Give me some dice to throw and I’m all in.”
“Nothing like the rush of a pure, unadulterated gamble?”
He gave me a knowing look, the sort a father shares with a child. No words were necessary. For some reason, the exchange gave me a warm fuzzy. We’d had those moments before, when I hadn’t known of our blood relation, but somehow, the father-daughter thing changed things in a subtle, insidious, heartwarming way. Working my head from side to side in an attempt to move muscles that felt like tight steel bands, I rolled my eyes at myself. What was it with me lately? Soft and mushy were not adjectives anyone would use to describe me, of that I felt certain.
I must be hormonal. Meaningful sex would be a good cure for that. But, given my lack of a meaningful relationship, that was a pipe dream. However, even a dog with a bad nose eventually found a bone, right? Easily amused, I smiled at the puns.
“What?” my father asked.
“What?” My face fell into a mask of guilty innocence.
“What were you smiling at?”
Once again ignoring the impropriety of touching my boss—it sent all the wrong messages to those who cared enough to notice—I hooked my arm through my father’s. “That you will never know. There are simply some things a father should never know about his daughter.”
“Probably so, I shock easily,” he teased.
“So, how was the party?” I asked in a deft change of topic. Each year before the Smack Down begins the Big Boss hosted a party for all the big guns in the poker world. Most of them had been longtime friends so the party usually wound up late and involved a king’s ransom in single-malt and Habanos.
“Exhausting. Back in the day I could hold my own, but not anymore. Now they leave me in the dust—even the old farts. I can’t tell you how good that makes me feel.” He shot me a grin, which took the whine out of his statement.
“Was Frank DeLuca there?”
“Sure, but he left early.”
“How early?”
My father gave me a shrewd look. “A little before midnight, why?”
“You know why. We’ve got a dead girl in his dealership. Inquiring minds are going to want to know his whereabouts between two and two thirty this morning.”
“Frank’s been around.”
I didn’t know exactly what he meant by that. I wanted to pursue it, but there was a time and a place, and his clipped tone told me this was clearly neither. “Anyone else interesting there?”
“The usual suspects.” The knife-edge slid from my father’s voice. “Funny thing though. This year Shady Slim was a no-show.”
“That’s not like him.”
“No, it’s not. And he hasn’t checked in yet…I looked into it myself.” A
“As long as it’s not imminent,” my father shot back.
He had a point, I guess. Not one I could identify with, but I’d learned long ago the Big Boss was who he was. For a long time I’d wondered whether he knew where any bodies were buried. Vegas being what it is, he’d done business with the mob back in the day and the whispers still followed him. He’d never cultivated that reputation, but he didn’t work to dispel the rumors either. So, he remained surrounded by mystery—something I think he got a big bang out of. Personally, I couldn’t see my father throwing his lot in with Tony Spilotro, Lefty Rosenthal, and the boys, but, as recent history had proven once again, I was not the best judge of character—especially when it came to men. However, family was family—blood thicker than water and all that. I looped an arm around his shoulders, gave him a quick squeeze then stepped back. In heels, I had him by at least six inches—a fact that always surprised me. He just seemed…bigger.
“Poker, a game that totally eludes me.” He nodded toward the two pros now engrossed in the game the young Mr. Weston had just joined. “Give me some dice to throw and I’m all in.”
“Nothing like the rush of a pure, unadulterated gamble?”
He gave me a knowing look, the sort a father shares with a child. No words were necessary. For some reason, the exchange gave me a warm fuzzy. We’d had those moments before, when I hadn’t known of our blood relation, but somehow, the father-daughter thing changed things in a subtle, insidious, heartwarming way. Working my head from side to side in an attempt to move muscles that felt like tight steel bands, I rolled my eyes at myself. What was it with me lately? Soft and mushy were not adjectives anyone would use to describe me, of that I felt certain.
I must be hormonal. Meaningful sex would be a good cure for that. But, given my lack of a meaningful relationship, that was a pipe dream. However, even a dog with a bad nose eventually found a bone, right? Easily amused, I smiled at the puns.
“What?” my father asked.
“What?” My face fell into a mask of guilty innocence.
“What were you smiling at?”
Once again ignoring the impropriety of touching my boss—it sent all the wrong messages to those who cared enough to notice—I hooked my arm through my father’s. “That you will never know. There are simply some things a father should never know about his daughter.”
“Probably so, I shock easily,” he teased.
“So, how was the party?” I asked in a deft change of topic. Each year before the Smack Down begins the Big Boss hosted a party for all the big guns in the poker world. Most of them had been longtime friends so the party usually wound up late and involved a king’s ransom in single-malt and Habanos.
“Exhausting. Back in the day I could hold my own, but not anymore. Now they leave me in the dust—even the old farts. I can’t tell you how good that makes me feel.” He shot me a grin, which took the whine out of his statement.
“Was Frank DeLuca there?”
“Sure, but he left early.”
“How early?”
My father gave me a shrewd look. “A little before midnight, why?”
“You know why. We’ve got a dead girl in his dealership. Inquiring minds are going to want to know his whereabouts between two and two thirty this morning.”
“Frank’s been around.”
I didn’t know exactly what he meant by that. I wanted to pursue it, but there was a time and a place, and his clipped tone told me this was clearly neither. “Anyone else interesting there?”
“The usual suspects.” The knife-edge slid from my father’s voice. “Funny thing though. This year Shady Slim was a no-show.”
“That’s not like him.”
“No, it’s not. And he hasn’t checked in yet…I looked into it myself.” A
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